


a shift in the universe

by emrysthewarlock



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Firelord Zuko (Avatar), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Post-Canon, all the other characters are kind of background sorry!!, because she deserves it!!, the inherent homeroticism of washing your boyfriend's hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emrysthewarlock/pseuds/emrysthewarlock
Summary: Zuko doesn’t remember much of the aftermath of the Agni Kai.---Or, Zuko's relationship with his hair through the ages.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 690





	a shift in the universe

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's me, back at it with another avatar fic. This one has some good zukka content, but it also has a lot of zuko learning to heal and let himself be loved!! (yes, I am once again projecting onto Zuko). I hope y'all like it :)

Zuko doesn’t remember much of the aftermath of the Agni Kai.

He remembers agony, like he had never known it before, his skin  _ burning  _ as he cried out a cascade of  _ please, no, stop, I’m sorry,  _ that fell on deaf ears. The rest is a blur of hands on his arms, some rough and one (just one) gentle and soothing as he clawed at the flaming skin because he wanted it to  _ stop _ .

After that, his memory goes dark. He remembers waking up on a ship, Uncle looking over him, thick white bandages pressed to the side of his face. He knows how it felt to peel off those bandages for the first time, the way the angry red looked so shocking against his pale skin. He can still taste the panic in his mouth sometimes, the same as he did that day when he stumbled away from his reflection trying futilely to breathe air into lungs that felt like they were collapsing. 

It wasn’t just the scar that made him that way. 

It had been his  _ hair _ .

When his hair was long, in a ponytail, everyone had said he had looked like his mother.  _ You’re the spitting image of Ursa,  _ they would say. Even when Zuko didn’t know what spitting image meant, he knew that he was prouder than anything to look like his mom and even after she left, after she left  _ him _ , he kept his hair long. 

His hair wasn’t like that anymore. 

Now, the hair around his scar had burned away to almost the top of his head, leaving choppy and uneven strands around his face. He had started shaking and had reached out a hand to touch it, recoiling at the rough feeling. It was his scar that started the panic, but it was his hair that had done him in.

“Zuko?” Iroh had asked carefully (because he was always careful and gentle with Zuko then. He was the first person to treat Zuko like he was worth more than harsh words and pain and the prince still wasn’t sure he deserved that kindness) as Zuko stared at his reflection, horrified.

“Cut it off,” he had whispered. 

“Zuko?”

“Cut it off!” Without another word, he had slammed his fist into the mirror, the glass cracking under his knuckles. “Please!” his scream tapered off into a broken plea, as he whirled around to face his Uncle with burning eyes. 

And so Uncle had taken a knife and had gently and slowly removed the burned hair until all that was left was a ponytail, miraculously saved from the fire. Uncle asked him if he wanted it cut off too, but Zuko had said no. He offered no reason.

(But Zuko knew why. He wanted to keep a part of his mom with him, and those days in the palace, the days when it really got hard, he would think about how he was  _ the spitting image  _ of his mom, and smile. He had still wanted that. So he kept the ponytail.)

His hair evened out, Zuko began to calm. But he still never looked in mirrors. If he would see his reflection in water or metal, he would look away. It was the reflection of a disappointment, the reflection of someone who had never been much good anyway. 

It was Zuko’s reflection. 

And there was nothing he hated more than that. 

.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．

Zhao is quite possibly the worst person Zuko has met. 

He has a way of commanding attention that reminds Zuko unpleasantly of his father. His eyes are cold and when he looks at Zuko, something in his stomach tightens until he’s resorting to fight or flight. Zhao puts him on edge. And he doesn’t like it.

The feeling in his stomach surfaces as he’s led to Zhao’s camp, an opulent tent that seems to laugh in Zuko’s face.  _ Look what this Commander gets for supplies. You are the Fire Lord’s son, and you have the smallest ship in the fleet. What a disgrace.  _

He pushes away the thoughts, though. He knows his father still cares, has to care on some level, because he’s his  _ son.  _ Because he’s just 16. Because he wants to go home and if he doesn’t believe his father wants him he might spiral into a place he doesn’t know how to get out of. 

“So, Prince Zuko,” Zhao starts once he and Iroh are settled into two chairs in the commander’s ridiculously fancy tent. There are guards lining the whole perimeter and Zuko feels his hands start to shake so he folds his arms and tucks them away where they can’t be seen. “Care to tell me how your ship  _ actually  _ got damaged?”

“I  _ told  _ you,” Zuko spits. “It was an avalanche in a strait we were passing through.”

“Hm.” Zhao braces his hands on the armrests of Zuko’s chair and  _ leans in  _ and all of a sudden there’s fear building in his throat because he doesn’t  _ like  _ it when people get this close to him. He swallows and he knows Zhao sees it. 

The commander smirks.

“The thing is, I don’t believe you.” He’s not backing up and Zuko feels like his skin is crawling and there’s a burning in his veins, behind the paralyzing fear.  _ Fight or flight.  _ “We interrogated your crew. They mentioned something about… the Avatar?”

And then Zuko is seeing red because the Avatar is  _ his _ , it’s his only way home and he  _ needs  _ to go home, and his boot is coming up to hit Zhao square in the chest. It’s enough to cause the commander to stumble back, and Zuko is on his feet with daggers of fire in his hands before Zhao can recover.

“Zuko!” Iroh reprimands, but Zuko doesn’t care. He will not be pushed around by Zhao, not when there are so few things in his life he controls and he needs to feel like he has a handle on this. He will not have his ticket home ripped out of his hands by a man with a superiority complex. 

With a growl, Zhao recovers and rushes at Zuko. He ducks under his swing, the heat of fire unpleasantly close to his face.

He no longer feels the intense panic of fire that he once did, something he has worked hard on for three years through hours of meditating and training until he could hold a flame in his hand without flinching. He aims a swiping kick at Zhao’s legs that sends him tumbling to the floor. Iroh might be telling him to stop, but he isn’t listening. Zuko’s still grasping his fire daggers, eyebrow furrowed and in a fighting stance because he is  _ tired  _ of Zhao treating him like some kid. He’s tired of being bullied into doing what he wants. He’s tired of this additional reminder that he is always one step behind. 

He’s aiming a strike at the back of Zhao’s leg when, suddenly, hands grasp onto his ponytail and  _ pull _ . 

He freezes, fire daggers dissipating immediately. Zhao notices (of course he does, but Zuko’s too scared still to do anything) and uses his grip on Zuko’s hair to pull him into an upright position so he’s staring right at the commander’s face. 

It’s all Zuko can do to stop himself from gasping out loud. His hair burns where Zhao is grabbing it and his hearing starts to become muffled, like he’s six feet under water, as his heart thuds uselessly against his rib cage. He wants to get out, he wants to run, wants to fight, but he can’t move without tugging at his hair and it’s making him feel trapped, more trapped than he has ever felt. He can’t  _ breathe _ . He thinks he may start crying, but he doesn’t know. All he knows is that it  _ hurts  _ and he doesn’t want anyone to touch his hair like that. 

He knows that it reminds him of the Agni Kai. Suddenly he’s 13 again and he feels his father’s hand grasping his hair so he can’t recoil from the burning palm. He’s waking to a stranger’s reflection, hair charred and burned. He’s breaking all the mirrors in his chambers so he wouldn’t have to look at himself. He’s in pain and he’s  _ scared _ . 

“Commander Zhao!” Iroh yells, voice breaking through the fog of Zuko’s mind. “That is  _ enough _ .”

Zhao smirks one last time and then he lets go. Zuko stumbles back. His hands are shaking again and he can’t look at Zhao anymore and he feels sick. He’s a coward. A disappointment. He falls apart at nothing. No wonder his father wanted him gone. 

Nausea rises in his stomach and he forces himself to keep it  _ down  _ because he already looks so weak and he can’t give Zhao any more ammunition. The commander says something and Iroh retorts but Zuko can’t hear it because everything sounds like he’s underwater. He still feels a phantom hand gripping his hair. The scarred skin around his eye burns and prickles. He wants to go  _ home _ . 

(He just wants to stop feeling afraid. He wants to disappear.) 

The next thing he knows he’s being ushered into cool night air that makes him shiver because he’s already so cold and he feels like he’s in a daze.

“Let’s get to our ship, Prince Zuko,” a familiar voice says and Zuko just nods and lets himself be led away from the camp. He still feels nauseous and even though he’s outside he feels like everything’s too close. His hair brushes the back of his neck and it makes him feel sick. 

He  _ hates  _ it. He hates his hair. He hates everything about himself, right at this moment. 

But the Avatar will not be captured with self-hatred. Self-hatred will not take him home. 

He tries to banish the feeling and forces himself to take deep breaths even though his lungs refuse to fill all the way. He concentrates on his steps. Left. Right. He begins to feel more in the present, his hearing no longer muffled and his vision no longer spotted, but there’s still an antsy panic that is making his skin crawl that he cannot shake off. His clothes feel too tight. Uncle’s hand on his shoulders feels too constraining.  _ Run _ , a voice whispers in his head.  _ Where?  _ he asks back. 

Zuko lets Uncle lead him all the way onto the deck of the ship before he shrugs him off. “I’m fine,” he says. He hopes his tone brokers no questions. “I’m going to bed. Tell the crew to set sail.”

He leaves Uncle on the deck as he stalks off into a corridor. It isn’t until he’s out of view from anyone’s eyes, lost in some dimly lit passageway in a ship not meant to be commanded by a sixteen-year-old that he doubles over, knees hitting the steel floor, retching as bile burns his throat.

When the nausea finally fades, Zuko rocks back on his heels. He presses the palm of his hand to his forehead, pressing to try and relieve the tension that is building there. When the tears come, they come suddenly and without any warning. He is sitting on cold metal floors, throat and head burning, when the tears come and they  _ don’t stop _ . 

He hasn’t cried in three years, not since he had woken up on a ship with just a scar to remind him of what had happened. He hasn’t cried because crying made you weak and Zuko couldn’t afford to be weak anymore. So he didn’t cry.

But now, he does.

Choked sobs force their way out of him, tearing at an already sensitive throat. He feels like he might fall apart as he cries and cries. He had been so  _ scared _ . 

His cheeks and eyes are wet and his throat burns and his head  _ hurts _ . His hair feels like it's on fire where Zhao had grabbed it. He wants to go  _ home _ . 

The longer he’s away from it, the more impossible it seems.

.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．

They’re running away from Azula and Zuko has never hated himself more. 

_ Stupid _ , he curses himself as his feet thud against grassy earth, Uncle a few paces behind.  _ I’m an idiot _ . It was as if he hadn’t learned anything. It’s like he was ten and Azula was eight and she was roping him into trouble because  _ she  _ would always walk away unscathed while Zuko was left to clean up the mess. It is a pattern he is familiar with. And he fell into the trap again. 

Angry tears prick his eyes but he swipes them away. He can’t afford to cry, not when he’s not welcome in the Earth Kingdom and now the Fire Nation is after them too.  _ My own nation _ , he thinks and there is a deep sadness that starts in the pit of his stomach and expands into his chest, twisting and pulling until he’s skidding to a stop, gasping for breath.

“Prince Zuko?” Uncle asks.

“I think we’ve lost them,” he responds, because how could he explain that he has never felt this  _ empty _ , this  _ hopeless  _ before? How could he explain that he feels like it doesn’t matter if he captures the Avatar anymore because he will never be welcomed home? How could he explain that he wishes he didn’t exist, just a little? 

Zuko kneels on the bank of the river, heart still beating dully against the hollow of his chest. He squeezes his hands shut until his nails dig into his palms, leaving crescent imprints and pain that grounds him back to reality. He can’t go back home. He can’t enter the Earth Kingdom looking how he does. It would be a death sentence and although there is a sense of pointlessness that has clouded his mind, there is also a spark that tells him he will  _ not  _ let Azula win this time. He  _ will  _ find the Avatar. He  _ will  _ force himself home. 

He draws out his blade, the one Uncle gifted him all those years ago, back when things were easier, and unsheaths it. 

Uncle looks at him with questioning eyes and Zuko shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it myself.” Without thinking twice, he brings the blade to the base of his ponytail and slices the last remnant of his old life off. He passes the knife to Uncle and sets his hair into the river, momentarily distracted by his reflection for the first time in years.

He wonders if people will look at him and see his father, now, instead of his mom. Maybe they will look at him and see nothing. When he looks at his reflection in the river, distorted by the rippling waves, he suddenly thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to look like no one. 

_ It wouldn’t be so bad to have a fresh start.  _

But then the angry red of his eye draws his attention, the burn marks creeping all the way into his forehead. He thinks of the way his father grabbed his hair so he couldn’t move. He thinks of the pain. He thinks of the  _ fear  _ whenever anyone touches his hair, the way that he couldn’t stand to lose that one ponytail, due to an irrational panic that he would lose all connections to his mother. 

He feels very cold. 

There would be no fresh start for him, he is sure. No anonymity. 

People like him don’t get that. 

.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．

Zuko stirs his spoon around the bowl of broth that Katara has prepared for them for dinner. He never thought he would be back here, back in their Ember Island family home. He remembers running through these halls, laughing. He remembers making sandcastles with Uncle. He remembers his mother teaching him how to look for crabs in the sand, and then coming home with sea salt in his hair and a warm feeling in his chest.

Now, they are days away from the comet and he is back. Everyone is laughing and chatting and although Zuko knows better how to be like them, he still can’t overcome the feeling that he can’t belong here, not after all that he has done. He can teach Aang firebending. He can make amends. But he will never be a part of their group, not really.

He doesn’t expect anything else. It’s what he’s used to. 

Zuko finally tunes back into the conversation as Toph is regaling some story about scams and money. “Speaking of the good old times, remember that ridiculous ponytail Zuko used to have?” Sokka asks, his voice tinged with amusement. Actually, it’s not so much  _ tinged  _ as it is flat out mirth. He starts laughing, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye as the rest of the group laughs and Zuko feels a little bit more alone than before. “Now  _ that  _ was a tragic hairstyle.”

“Yeah, Sparky,” Toph joins in. Zuko wants to hide but he forces himself to put a smile on his face and listen to their jokes because he is just getting in their good graces and he will not risk that because he’s  _ sensitive  _ about something that happened years ago. Still, his scalp feels like it’s unpleasantly burning and he wishes he could leave. “Who let you do that to your hair? I thought princes could afford nice haircuts.”

Everyone dissolves into giggles again and the mood is light and Zuko will not be the one to ruin it. So he forces a laugh. “I guess it was pretty funny,” he chokes out. 

“Funny? It was hilarious!” Sokka laughs uproariously.

Everything starts feeling too close, the fire in front of him too bright. He thinks about how much he hated his reflection, how sometimes he still does. He remembers Uncle gently cutting off the burned hair and Zuko just  _ shaking  _ like a leaf in the storm because he didn’t look like his mom anymore and the only alternative was looking like his father. And he couldn’t look in a mirror if he looked like his father because he still jumped whenever someone firebended and his eye still burned and his scalp prickled whenever he thought about what had happened. In those days, he would wake up and stare at the cold grey ceiling and wonder if everything would be better if he just died. He tries not to think about how, sometimes, he still flinches when fire approaches his face. He tries not to think about how he’s still afraid. He tries not to think about how the thought of anyone touching his hair sends a chill running down his spine and tightens his chest until he can barely breathe. 

He lets himself be laughed at even though those memories are some of the worst in his life and now he can’t get them out of his head. He lets them joke about this because he doesn’t have the right to tell them not to, not after everything he’s done. He tries to not think about any of it. 

(He fails.)

Zuko’s chest keeps tightening and the thought of eating anything makes him want to vomit, so he stands. “I’m going to bed,” he says, hoping to all the fire spirits that his voice sounds steady enough. “Aang, I’ll see you in the morning for some drills.” He leaves to a chorus of  _ night Zuko  _ and walks the open-air corridors of the house. His feet lead him somewhere without thinking, down a wooden path and onto the sandy shoreline. The moon is bright, the stars shining through, and Zuko is grateful for their light. 

It is easier, out here in the salty air, to not feel as though the world is collapsing in on him. Like he is the center of an imploding star and no matter how hard he tries to push outwards, it all falls back in on him. He digs his toes in the sand and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

He shouldn’t be this affected by their comments. His hair was ridiculous. He knows it. But there’s something about that time that is as part of Zuko as his scar, no matter how hard he tried to push it away all these years. There is an instinctual fear that has embedded itself into his actions and thoughts, a fear that goes hand in hand with a ponytail and a scar, hair seared and choppy on his scalp. He can’t shake it off. 

“Stupid,” he mutters because it is  _ stupid _ . It’s stupid that he’s finally in a place where he feels the most himself he ever has, yet there are still echoes of his past that refuse to leave his mind. It’s stupid that even though most of the group has welcomed him, he still feels like an outsider that can’t laugh at their jokes because it’s still all too  _ real  _ for him. It’s stupid that he can’t just  _ get over it _ . 

“Hey,” a voice from behind him startles Zuko out of his thoughts, and a history of surprises never turning out well for him has him whirling around with a flame lit on his fist before he can think twice about it. He lets the flame die when he registers Sokka standing in the sand, arms crossed. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Nothing good has ever happened when someone has said those words to Zuko, so he crosses his arms and makes a face. “That sounds like your problem.”

Sokka frowns back. Zuko turns around, assuming that will be the end of it. Sokka will go back to the beach house and Zuko will stay here until the sun rises, thinking about his unwavering ability to mess everything up for himself. 

He doesn’t leave. 

Instead, he shuffled forward until he’s standing almost shoulder to shoulder with Zuko. The salty ocean breeze stirs the hairs at the back of Zuko’s neck and he shivers. “Look, do you need something?” he bites out, still reeling from the comments about his hair and he hates himself for being so sensitive but his scar is pricking and his head hurts. 

“Yeah, actually. You didn’t seem very happy when you left for the night… so I came to check up on you?” Sokka rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if the hair jokes went too far.”

And that makes Zuko feel even more ridiculous than before. He’s falling apart all because of some comments about his  _ hair _ . Because of something that happened years ago. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, looking away as Sokka’s eyes dart over to him. “It was just something stupid.”

Sokka lays a hand on Zuko’s arm and he tenses before relaxing because Sokka’s hand is cool and unwavering without any intent to harm. It’s been so long since he’s been touched like that, as if he was something that deserved more than pain. “I don’t think it’s stupid if it makes you like this,” Sokka says, and Zuko hates that he is so easy to read. “Look… you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But you’re part of our team now, and no one here is going to use that information against you. We wouldn’t do something like that.”

Maybe it’s because he’s been carrying this for three years, maybe it’s because he’s never told anyone about this, not even Uncle, maybe because Sokka is the first person in a long time other than Uncle who seems to care, but Zuko finds himself reaching out to touch the rough edges of his scar, words falling from his mouth before he can think twice. 

“When I was thirteen, I was invited to a War Council meeting,” he begins. His legs feel unsteady, so he sits on the sand and Sokka follows suit. The story unfolds itself and he thinks he might be shaking but Sokka braces an arm around his shoulders that keeps him grounded. 

“He gave me this scar,” he whispers. The night is silent except for the waves lapping at the shore, a slight breeze rustling the palm trees. “During the Agni Kai. He held me by my hair so that I couldn’t move as he pressed his fire against my face. It burned a lot of my hair and it was… bad. I wasn’t doing good. Uncle cut it off because it was charred and uneven, everything except the ponytail.” He doesn’t explain that the ponytail reminded him of his mother, that it reminded him of how everyone would say he looked just like her with his long hair. There is too much there for Zuko to say it steadily. So he leaves it and continues. “I never got over that, I guess. The way he grabbed my hair.” 

He suddenly feels ridiculous. It’s just  _ hair _ , he has no right to be so torn up about it, he shouldn’t make Sokka sit here and listen to the ramblings of someone who was too weak to get over something like that. “Whatever,” he says abruptly, drawing his knees to his chest. “It wasn’t even that big of a deal.” 

“Are you kidding?” Sokka still has an arm around his shoulders and it should feel confining but it doesn’t. It’s more comfort than Zuko has known in a long time. “It is a big deal. I had no idea… I don’t think any of us had any idea that was how you got your scar.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! But, I’m really glad you told me.” Serious Sokka is back and Zuko just watches the moon reflected on the waves and thinks about how he’s making such a big deal over nothing. “Zuko… you know that it’s okay to feel upset about that, right?”

The question takes Zuko back because the first thing he wants to say is that of course he knows that. Of course he can be upset about it. He thinks, though, about how he has spent three years with an unshakable fear in his stomach because he was so worried someone would grab his hair, someone would aim a blast of fire too close to his face. He thinks about how he hasn’t told  _ anyone _ , not even Uncle, about that fear. He thinks about how he’s learned to deflect fear into anger because he doesn’t have time to waste on self-pity when he needs to focus on finding his way home.

The cold fear suddenly feels paralyzing. 

“I was so scared,” he whispers, and tears start to fall before he knows what’s happening. “ _ Fuck.  _ I was so scared.” 

He’s fully crying now, sobs tearing their way out of his throat and making his chest heave as Sokka pulls him in until Zuko is resting his forehead on the water tribe boy’s shoulder, unable to stop himself from falling apart. He was  _ scared.  _ He’s been terrified for years. 

He’s never told  _ anyone _ .

“I thought I was going to die,” he says and it’s the first time he’s ever said the words out loud and the realization makes him feel so small. Sokka just holds him closer.

Zuko takes in deep shuddering breaths until his eyes dry and tears are replaced with a dull headache. He lets himself lean against Sokka’s shoulder for minutes more, concentrating on the air flowing through his lungs. He’s alive. He’s okay.

When he finally pulls back, Sokka keeps a loose grip on his shoulders. “You’re not alone, okay?” he says. “We’re your team, Zuko. Once you’re in the Gaang, there’s no escaping it.” Despite himself, Zuko smiles.

“Okay,” he whispers.

They stay on the beach, neither speaking. Zuko can’t help but feel like this is a turning point, like something monumental has shifted in the cosmos and things are slowly starting to fall into place. He looks over at Sokka, the way the moonlight shines off his skin, and feels something in his chest tighten but in a way that was different from before. It’s not as suffocating as before.

Sokka catches his eyes and grins at him. “You ready to go back in?” he asks, and Zuko finds himself flushing as though he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He nods, and Sokka’s grin widens.

“Race you!” Sokka yells and then he’s on his feet, tearing his way through the sand back up to the house. It only takes a split second for Zuko to sprint after him, his heart thrumming in his chest like butterfly wings. He lets himself smile, and lets himself forget the pain he had been in.  _ I’m okay _ , he thinks. It might not last forever, it might not even last the night, but in this moment he is  _ okay _ . 

It’s a comforting thought.

.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．

Zuko can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror. 

The hair-piece sits on either side of his topknot, the gold matching his Fire Lord regalia perfectly. He knows what it means, that it was Avatar Roku’s, and that wearing it is just another symbol for the new world he is bringing into vision with Aang. He  _ knows  _ this.

And he likes this hair-piece. It’s not his fathers, and it’s not Sozin’s either. It’s from a different lineage, something that he is taking and using as he brings forward an era of peace. Most days, this hair-piece is a comfort to him. 

Right now, though? Right after a meeting where his authority was constantly questioned by Fire Nation politicians much older than him, right after he had been forced to sit and endure the sly comments about how he was letting down generations of Fire Lords? Or that he wasn’t doing enough to help recovery after the war and that he was just like his father? All he can see in the mirror was Ozai, the hair-piece just another item weighing him down until he feels like he might collapse.

His scar feels itchy, his scalp prickling. All he can think about is the way Ozai grabbed him by his hair, the way Zhao had, the way that every single person who has touched his hair has used it to maintain power over him.

Zuko’s doing better, now. He knows this. But some days are  _ hard _ . 

The door to his chambers creak open and he turns around, already prepared to be notified of another unsatisfied noble he would have to meet with. Instead of a messenger, however, he’s greeted with Sokka’s grinning face.

“Hey, you,” Sokka says, and Zuko forces a smile on his face.

“Hey.”

Sokka frowns slightly, entering the room and closing the door behind him. “What’s up, jerk?” he asks, running a thumb gently over Zuko’s unscarred cheekbone. “Everything is alright in there?” He taps Zuko’s head lightly. 

Zuko’s first instinct to say that everything is fine, that he’s fine, and to let it go. But it’s been two years since the war ended, and almost as much time since Sokka took him to the Southern Water Tribe and kissed him under the expanse of the night sky. If he can’t trust Sokka with his problems, he can’t trust anyone. 

“Today was hard,” he whispers, dropping his head down onto Sokka’s broad shoulders. “I just… I keep seeing him in my reflection and then I think about my hair and it just… makes me feel not great.”

Sokka rubs circles on his upper arms, kissing his scar softly. “I’m sorry, babe. Anything I can do?”

An idea comes to Zuko’s mind suddenly. He’s tired of being afraid of someone yanking at his hair, freezing every time someone touches it. He trusts Sokka. He wants to get over his fear. “Can you….” Zuko pulls back to look at Sokka. “Can you help me wash my hair?”

Sokka’s eyes widen briefly, his mouth falling open slightly in surprise. “Of course, sweetheart,” he breathes. He rests his hands on the sides of Zuko’s face, thumbs resting under his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Zuko nods resolutely. “I trust you.”

This statement causes his boyfriend to break into a huge grin as he pulls Zuko’s face to his for a long kiss. Their noses squish together and Zuko starts to laugh softly because Sokka is  _ here  _ and is everything Zuko has ever wanted. 

“What are you laughing at, weirdo?” Sokka mumbles against his lips.

Zuko pulls back, resting his hands on Sokka’s (rather broad) upper arms. “I love you,” he says, looking directly into the other’s eyes. They’ve said it before, but Zuko knows that he’s not always the best at expressing affection and he needs Sokka to know, right now, how much he adores him. 

Sokka’s grin gets even wider, his eyes slightly shiny. “I love you too.” He pulls Zuko in for another quick kiss. “Now go get undressed, I’ll get the bath ready.” 

Zuko kisses him once more, before letting Sokka pull away and head towards the bath chambers. He turns his back to the mirror and pulls out the hair-piece, letting his hair tumble down to where it rests just below his shoulders. He carefully removes each piece of his Fire Lord wear until all he’s wearing is a thin robe and an inexplicable tightness in his chest.

“Sokka?” he asks, peering into the adjacent chamber. Sokka has filled the large tub with water and is pouring some mysterious solution into it. “What are you doing?”

“Bubbles!” Sokka exclaims cheerily, running his hand through the water where, sure enough, bubbles are forming. “You can’t take a bath without bubbles.” 

The pressure around his heart eases up, just a little. “You’re so lame,” he says. Sokka just winks at him. 

He carefully eases himself into the water, sinking down to let the warmth ease the tension in his shoulders. It feels  _ so  _ good, and the bubbles somehow make everything seem so much better, not that he would tell Sokka.

“How was the meeting?” Sokka asks, settling himself by the side of the tub. He absentmindedly strokes Zuko’s face, tracing the outline of his ear with his thumb. 

Zuko groans, sliding further into the bath. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles. 

Sokka winces, nodding. “Those old nobles really have it in for us, don’t they.”

He hums in assent, closing his eyes, and lets the feeling of Sokka’s hand bring him comfort.

“Hey, babe. Are you ready?” 

Zuko cracks an eye open to see Sokka holding various bottles of soaps, his face configured into an expression so soft it makes Zuko want to kiss him senseless. He nods once, ignoring the tightness in his throat. It’s  _ Sokka _ . He’s not going to hurt him. He doesn’t want to have power over him, not like this.  _ It’s going to be okay.  _

Regardless, he closes his eyes as Sokka’s fingers first start working through his hair, gently threading through the damp strands. “Is this okay?” Sokka asks. Zuko nods. 

He softly and slowly works his way through Zuko’s hair, gently untangling all the knots with his fingers. As the seconds pass, Zuko feels himself relaxing as his brain finally catches up to the realization that this is Sokka. That he’s safe. He massages oils and soaps into his scalp, gently relieving the pressure that had built in his temples. The soap smells like rose, and something slightly spicy that Zuko can’t place but he enjoys. He pays attention to the feeling of calloused fingers on his head, soft touches running through his hair, soft hums that Sokka doesn’t even seem to be aware he’s making. 

It’s all so kind and soft that Zuko is hit with a rush of gratitude so strong he feels tears prick his eyes before he can stop them. 

“Zuko? What’s wrong?” Sokka says, stopping immediately because  _ of course  _ he noticed. “Do you want me to stop?”

Zuko shakes his head silently, biting his lip as tears fall down his face. 

“Please talk to me, sweetheart,” Sokka pleads, and this is what is Zuko’s undoing. He opens his mouth to let out a choked sob and lets Sokka gather him in his arms until the side of his face is pressed against his chest. 

“I never thought I would have this,” Zuko croaks as he shakes and Sokka rubs patterns on his back. “I never thought I could be so happy, could be so  _ grateful  _ for someone that it feels like I could explode. That I could love someone without being afraid they would be taken away.” 

“Oh, Zuko,” Sokka breathes, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Later, when Sokka has brushed Zuko’s hair and toweled it dry, when they are lying side by side in bed like two parentheses, Zuko takes Sokka’s hand and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Thank you,” he says.

Sokka smiles sleepily before leaning in to press drowsy kisses over Zuko’s face.

“Always.”

.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．

Zuko pours another cup of tea and hands it to Azula. She takes it, murmuring a ‘thank you.’ The simple phrase makes him so incredibly proud. They’ve both come so far.

The garden is quiet around them, save for the sound of some birds chirping. Azula has her hair tied back in a knot, but Zuko knows that if she were to unravel it, it would nearly reach her waist. She hasn’t allowed anyone to come near it since her episode before the war. 

It’s something that reminds him so much of his younger self that he asks her about it. 

She’s silent for a minute, and it gives Zuko a minute to feel that proud sensation once more. Years ago, she wouldn’t have even entertained this question. Now, here she is, living in a room in the palace, her bending restored, healing all the relationships that have been marred along the way. The journey hasn’t been easy, for either of them. He remembers her screaming herself hoarse at him, whispering that Ozai would come for her, crying and wailing in her cell. He remembers her refusing to talk to him, claiming that he was working with Ursa against her. He remembers the day when, after taunting him, she had gone quiet and serious and asked if Mai and Ty Lee were okay. 

Now, here they are. 

Family once more.

“When my hair is long… I think I look like  _ her _ ,” Azula whispers finally, and the familiarity of that sentiment hits Zuko so deeply that he inhales sharply. He remembers being younger and avoiding his reflection because he just couldn’t face the fact that he looked like his father. “And… sometimes I think I look like  _ him  _ too.” 

Zuko reaches out, tentatively, and grasps Azula’s hands. She tenses and Zuko panics, thinking he must have misstepped and gone too far, but after a second she grabs his hand back, her knuckles white. 

“We really struck gold with our family, didn’t we?” Zuko asks humorlessly. Azula laughs bitterly, an acrid expression on her face. But then it disappears and she averts her eyes from Zuko.

“You’re not so bad,” she mumbles.

Zuko feels a sudden rush of warmth circle through his veins as if the fire coursing through them has turned soft and molten, comforting instead of burning. Tears start to form in his eyes. Ever since he was nine years old and Azula had stopped idolizing him and had begun looking up to Ozai, all he had wanted was for his sister to be  _ his  _ sister again. Someone who wanted him around, who would come to him with problems and talk to him and ask him for advice. Someone to play with and hug and annoy, occasionally. He had thought he would never get that.

Now here they were, seven years after the brutal war that had stolen their childhood, and they’ve finally come back to each other.

“Ugh, don’t cry on me now, Zuzu,” Azula says, but her voice is thick and when Zuko looks at her, her eyes are shiny. 

“You know,” Zuko says, haltingly, “I had issues with my hair too. But I’ve found someone I trust, really trust, and let them help me with it. It’s helped me a lot, Azula. And, whenever you’re ready, I can be that person for you. Or, we can work on finding out who that person is.” 

She silently stares at where their hands are still gripped together as if one misstep could fracture the tentative bonds they have begun to reform. “I would like that,” she says quietly, finally. 

When Zuko leaves shortly after, it’s with the feeling that a weight has been lifted off his chest. He feels so light, so weightless, as he strolls down the halls of the palace to his chambers, where Sokka is lounging on the bed, scrolls piled around him and glasses perched on the edge of his nose.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sokka says, smiling at Zuko as he comes in. “Good day with Azula?”

Zuko nods, pulling off his outer robe and sliding into bed next to Sokka who turns around and presses a kiss to his lips. “Working hard?” Zuko asks, twirling a strand of Sokka’s hair around his finger.

“Yeah,” the other responds. “Trying to figure out some trade deals between the Fire Nation and the Southern Water Tribe. Don’t tell anyone I’m working, though,” he adds, grinning. “There’s a rumor going around that I’m the Fire Lord’s trophy husband, and I kind of like that.”

“Idiot,” Zuko laughs, pulling his spouse on top of him for another kiss. “Hey,” he says suddenly, between kisses. “Did I ever tell you how grateful I am for you?”

“Mm. You have.” Sokka hovers above him, blue eyes sparkling. “Did I ever tell you how head over heels in love I am with you?”

“You have.” Zuko grins. “But you could tell me again.”

It’s here, in the palace that had caused all of his fears, that had driven him apart from his sister and prevented him from trusting anyone, even himself, that he finds himself loved and happy.  _ I was right,  _ he thinks, remember all those nights ago when he and Sokka had sat on the beach and talked about things too big for sixteen-year-old boys to carry.

_ Everything has fallen into its place.  _

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me!  
> tumblr: annabeth541.tumblr.com


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